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One Night at the Bar
You have entered The Steel Balloon. The Steel Balloon Within the Steel Balloon, there is a dance floor immediately past the front door. Behind the floor is the main bar, which curves around like an elongated half-octagon. Several bartenders busily serve the customers that flow into this place at any given time. Contents: Socket Runamuck Lamborghini Aventador Airlift Fathom Wraith transforms seamlessly from a Lamborghini Aventador into a more proper form. Rumble has entered The Steel Balloon. Looking a bit the worse for the events of the last few days, Airlift is seated already in the bar, settled in at the bar itself. He's at the end most stool, near a support column, turned parallel to the bar with his feet kicked up on the next stool over, back resting against the column. There's a drink in his hand already, something purple and glowing that gives off a strange greenish mist of smoke, and he has his optics half closed as he leans his head back against that column, listening to the music of the bar and the noise of people. His scythe is leaned up against the column beside him, turned off, and wings drape almost to the floor as they are folded back. Runamuck says, "It's just a chance I'll have to take." Oh, and there's an ener-cigar smoldering in an ash-tray beside Airlift. Wraith makes his way into the Steel Balloon, scanning the area for other occupants that might cause trouble... of which there seem to be more than enough. He shrugs it off, though, making his way to the bar and setting a few coins on the counter while the mech behinds the bar gets him a nice cold frosty glass of his usual drink. Socket has no idea why she's here. Oh wait, yes she does. It's to keep an eye on those she's here with. She'd MUCH rather be back in her office, organizing her paperwork in alphabetical order, filed in triplicate, perfectly arranged to center on her desk -- or cleaning her tools -- or updating the medical proceedures for extreme mass medical emergencies. But no, she's here, at a bar. Stupid bar. Blast Off sits in his customary spot in the corner, in the shadows, lit only by his pale violet optics and the light from the datapad he's reading. He ignores the other bar patrons, barely noticing them as he is absorbed by his reading- and the occasional sip of wine from a glass. He doesn't look that great, either, having had several battles recently- the last one of which included Air Raid practically smearing him in shuttle mode across a cliff face like Raid was making some rock art. Fresh repairs patch him together, but he hasn't had a chance to get himself repainted, so he's looking far less "polished" than he usually does. Briefly in between assignments, he has made a quick stop to get a little refuel. Rumble struts in, looks around, and when he notices Blast Off, he flies across the room to suddenly join him at his isolated table. Rumble has all the excitement of a young kid pent up full of energy -- something has him totally hyped. "Guess what!! Guess. WHAT. You will NEVER guess what!" he says, practically dancing around the tabletop. Fathom is here to revel and make merry. It's like the first day of school, it's just the syllabus, no homework, no tasks just yet. What better way to spend the evening than in this jaunty neutral establishment. "Get me the tankthrasher! Yeah, the blue one, right up there!" He points excitedly up at the rack, then asides to the uninterested bartender. "I read an article on its conception. Really interesting!" He doesn't bother sitting, content to lean against the counter and stare blatantly as the strange-looking mech that is Airlift. Until he spots Wraith and his glowing lines. "Crazy... Is that paint?" he asks from afar. Rumble gets a brief, confused glance. Wraith turns towards Rumble's noise... wait, is that Blast Off? It's hard to really tell under all that patchwork of parts and paint...but the ego's unmistakeable. He pulls a vial of what appears to be energon from a concealed compartment, pouring it into the drink to spike it healthily with something more his speed. With that done, he makes his way towards Blast Off's table, settling into the chair opposite the combaticon as he watches the dancing Rumble. "Blast Off, I never figured for you to enjoy a show with your drink." Like most bars, the Steel Balloon has an atmosphere. Some bars have the heavy pall of smoke and depression. Still, others are filled with flashing strobes and pounding music. Some are even relaxing, filled with glitz and glamour. Then there's the Steel Balloon. In a planet torn by war, the Balloon appears to strive to be plain. This is probably a good thing. It's not really offensive to any one side. People file in, people file out. They get their drinks and move on with their lives. In some sense, it's a lot like a cafeteria that way. Still, it serves the perfunctory purpose of serving the one true desire for all sentient beings everywhere. No, not freedom, Mr. Prime. It's the maker-given desire for all living things to get completely plastered. This is where the rich lament their richness, the poor lament their poorness, the healthy lament the sick, and the sick lament themselves, and everyone sits around in their little bubbles, trying to seek respite at the bottom of a glass of any liquid you'd care to choose. Transformers are an odd lot, and frankly there's someone on the planet that'll drink anything if you put a tiny umbrella in it. It's in the bar's best interest to make sure that everyone is placated, that they stay in their spheres, because Cybertronians are a warlike species. Given enough booze and the right mixture of psychoses, and you'll soon have a firefight on your hands over whether Frenzy is red or if Rumble is blue. It's only appropriate as Rumble breaks the almost quiet monotony that Runamuck pops up almost comically behind a booth, looking around shiftly. His Decepticon badge has been expertly replaced by a unsmiley face that looks like this: (:|). Slowly sidling over behind the bar, his nametag proudly reads: 'HI, MY NAME IS: 'Mixalot'. He nonchalantly begins polishing a glass. Somewhere, on the South side of town, a young Cybertronian named Mixalot is buying a shuttle from a subsidiary of Swindle due to having received a substantial bribe. Two taloned fingers lower, taking hold of his ener cigar, drawing it up to take a pull off of it slowly, burning it down almost to nothing. He reaches over and crushes it out before glancing back at Wraith, having heard that little comment about Rumble dancing on the table. "That.." he says before taking a long pull off of his glass, "is absolutely disgusting..Wraith isn't it? Your reputation preceeds you.." he comments, eyeing the Autobot speculatively as he takes another long drink. Blast Off jerks back, startled, as Rumble is sudenly dancing all around his tabel. The Combaticon clutches his datapad, annoyed at the interruption of his reading, and stares blankly at him. "...What?" He's just trying to shift over and get back to his reading, leaning away from Rumble so as to see the datapad screen again. Optics gaze pointedly at his screen, trying to ignore Rumble- when Wraith suddenly speaks up across the table from him. The shuttleformer nearly flings the datapad in the air, catching the device again only *just* in time and then leaning back against the chair as far from Wraith as possible. "What- what do YOU want?" He doesn't sound happy to see the Autobot at all, tense, optics darting towards the "Necrobot's" arms like half expecting an attack any moment. "Sh-show? What show?" He stares a moment longer, then comprehension happens and he glances back at Rumble, taking far more interest in his *fellow Decepticon* (and possible backup) being there now. "Uh... Rumble. Yes, um, what did you want?" He sounds much more interested now,...kind of. But with optics still darting back to the Autobot, and his trigger finger looks itchy. Socket adjusts her glasses, and avoids the loud cassette. She walks quietly, with dignity, to the bar, and asks for the drink list. Blast Off and Wraith do momentarily catch her attention, but mainly because Blast Off looks like he needs to be on a circuit slab. Not wanting to be rude, she keeps to herself, the white and red rotorcraft femme reaches into her side panels, takes out a data pad, and begins some reading. Fathom gets his fancy drink, and turns to silently watch, smirking at the teasing and genuinely curious as to what Blast Off will /never/ guess. As Socket draws nearer, he offers a polite nod. He needn't know who she is to see she's somewhat out of place here. Wraith looks over at Airlift and raises his glass before taking a slow drink. "Wraith indeed. And I'm not the one dancing for Blast Off, Rumble is." He smiles thinly before returning his attention to Blast Off properly. "Come now, Blast Off, we've managed civil conversation before. I see no reason not to partake in this particular moment." He takes another long drink of his energon-laced drink. "Unless you'd prefer I just rip into you now and get it over with." "I'm going to have to ask you not to do that," Socket interjects. "This is neither the time nor place." Wraith flickers a glance towards Socket and nods. Rumble gives a smirk to Wraith's wisecrack, then he says, "You might as well know too, smartaft." He turns back to Blast Off and says, "Guess who just became an OFFICIAL 'sommelyeah'. Oh, it's true. I got documentation to back it up. Check...it...out." He pulls a scroll of paper out of subspace, with fancy Cybertronian script written on it: ' KAON ENERWINE ACACEMY RECOGNIZES Rumble FOR HIS KNOWLEDGE OF FINE ENERWINE AND ENERSPIRITS, AND THUS BESTOWS UPON HIM THE TITLE OF ENERWINE SOMMELIER. ' 'Mixalot' arrives shortly with the requested drinks list. It's a short affair, because this is a simple bar. However, there are a few 'off-menu' items. "In addition," the Battlecharger announces in a fake Altihexian accent, which is noted for its ability to sound snotty and unsophisticated at the same time, "We have Neuromancers, Overdrives, Red Stars, Snow Crash, Mnemonic Johnnys, Matrix Breakers, Matrix Bearers, Creation Matrix, Matrix of Leadership, Dinobot Crushers, Predacon's Mark, Oil Slick, Black Ice, White Ice, Ice Like Us, Ice Ice Baby..." The mechanoid counts off on his fingers as he cruises behind the bar as if he owned the place, getting weird looks from the normal staff as hands that can usually only concretrate long enough to fire off a few shots gather up bottles and start filling drink orders for idling patrons. "If you're looking for the fancier combos I can whip up, we have the Fallen, Amalgamous, Minimus, Nominus, Ambus, and Mortilus... that one's kinda heavy, good body, smooth, kicks like an Insecticon." Having passed most of the bar, Runamuck nay Mixalot alights back in front of Socket, hoping to not be noticed by Wraith, Airlift, or anyone important before leaning forward, seeming to almost grin despite not having a face. Okay, so they're not 'off-menu' so much as 'bewildering' or sometimes 'gross', but isn't that the mark of a good bar or bartender? "A weak energon spritzer, please," Socket replied, completely and totally unphased by "Mixalot". Doesn't even smile. Blast Off 's gaze is fixed on Wraith, and the Combaticon's grip on his datapad tightens at the mention of "ripping". Then a hand starts drifting down, as if he's preparing to bring out his ionic blaster from subspace. Then Socket speaks up, and Wraith nods to her. Blast off glances over at her, too, and stares at her a moment. Hmm, medic. He hasn't seen her before, but she is an Autobot. "Uh... yes. Indeed." Attempting to regain his composure now, he also nods to her and his hand comes back up to grip the datapad again. Though it'll bring that weapon out in a sparkbeat should Wraith so much as twitch his way. He looks back to Wraith. "...True. I can be /civil/, as long as others remain so... Upon Rumble's proclamation, the Combaticon is drawn back to more... pleasant interests. An optic ridge arches up and he leans in to read the paper. His voice is a mixture of confusion that a mech like Rumble ever got such a thing, and psosibly a tiny bit of envy. "That... is excellent, Rumble. I am... surprised, but... pleased for you." He might as well be nice, Rumble saved his aft recently..... "There's an academy for enerwine...?" Fathom murmurs, mostly to himself. Mildly crestfallen, he goes back to his drink, though his optics still linger on Wraith, as the glowly fella' did threaten to rip into Blast Off. That could be interesting. Mixalot rattles off more intriguing names and Fathom taps the bar. "Amalgamous!" Wraith says, "I do still have that vintage you gifted me with." He muses for a moment. "Though, this is neither the time nor place to break that one open." Wraith takes another long drink and looks for the proper bartender to get a refill from before it's too empty to drink. "So, what brings you here, Canary? I can't imagine there's too much downtime to be had with the state of things." Rumble glances over at the 'new' bartender, looking greatly amused for some strange reason...then he turns back to Blast Off. "I ain't braggin'. It's for the shop. Y'know. The shop, rememeber?" (The one that your teammate ripped off from us, remember?) he thinks to himself with a smirk. "Be back, I gotta school the noob." He flies across the room and has a seat on the bar beside Fathom. "Yeah, there is. It's a real exclusive kinda place. IF you can get into it, you get a crash course in all things cultured an' refined. Alla that classy type information." "You got it," responds 'Mixalot', and Runamuck engages in the arduous task that is... the weak energon spritzer. It's a joke drink to most. It's noted for it's exceedingly pathetic inability to get anyone intoxicated. It tastes like fizzy water, and has the color of strained peaches. The bouquet is what you'd imagine a flower's fart to be... and yet to make the perfect one is something that only grand masters of drinks can perform. This, and this alone, is the real reason why everyone thinks this is Ultra Magnus's drink of choice. Runamuck carefully assembles the ingredients. The energon base is poured, and then the light nucleon atomizer applied... and it erupts with a small mushroom cloud and a *FOOM!*. Perfect! "Here you go!" Runamuck chirps. "Careful - don't gulp it. The synthetics are still mingling." Runamuck snaps to the other drink order immediately. "Ah, the Amalgamous. Hope your fuel pan can take it. Five grades of energy, all competing in the same tank - energy states rise and fall in this symphony of flavor... or terrible, terrible and often embarrassing leakage." And before any protests can begin, the manic machine has slammed five bottles expertly into the DrinkMaster 8000, the finest mixer this size of Femax. The poor mechanism whimpers, whines and gurgles before spitting out a truly pretty drink that looks like a tiny swirling rainbow in a glass. 'Mixalot' scoots the d rink over to Fathom with a finger. "I'd drink that near the draining bay if I was you, sport." Socket looks at her drink, her delicate sensors taking in the quality of the bartender's work. "Well," she appraises, sounding pleasantly surprised. "I see that there is, in fact, some quality to the service of this establishment." She eyeballs the drink passed to Fathom. "Although I question the capacity of the individuals within it to properly assess their limitations." Blast Off looks back to Wraith, optics narrowing slightly. At this point, the Combaticon would be happy to take that wine bottle back, but... too late. Besides, perhaps he did owe Wraith a bit of a debt back then- which has been paid. So then again- no, let Wraith keep the wine bottle after all... "I see." The mention of "canary" causes the Combaticon to glance back and forth, confused, wondering just who Wraith is referring to. Then- OH. Wait, didn't Wraith call HIM that once before? Optics narrow again and he turns back to face the Autobot. "My name is Blast Off... Not much, no. I am an /important person/, with much work to do. But even /I/ must stop to refuel once in a while. There is always a place for a little culture, some reading and a glass of wine... for War will come again soon enough." Blast off replies to Rumble, "Yes... I know. How is that shop anyway? I haven't had a chance to return recently.." A glance to Wraith and back, "...Too busy." He watches as Rumble heads off, glances over at "Mixalot" and shakes his head, and reaches to sip on his wine glass. Then suddenly looks at Wraith- remembers that Wraith seems to find wine-flavored energon especially pleasing. The hand comes back, empty, and the wine glass remains standing on the table. "Oh yeah?" Fathom regards Rumble skeptically. "Sounds pretty tough. Who knew 'cons were so sophisticated." Mixalot's strange and exciting methods keep Fathom absolutely rapt, and when he's presented with a rainbow in a glass, he picks it up and swirls it. "Sounds intense." Socket receives a faint grin. He's not stupid. "Maybe you wanna' try it first there, you've got that fancy certificate." He offers the drink to Rumble. Wraith tsks. He pulls out another vial of the same energon he'd laced his first drink with. "You're safe. For now." He smiles thinly and settles back in his char. "So, tell me then, what are you finding in the way of 'culture' here?" He looks at his glass and frowns as the last of it is drained. "Hmm...pity, empty already." "Oh no, that's all yours, pal!" Rumble says to Fathom, sounding almost pleasant. "Besides -- that ain't the way of a sommel-yeah. Bartendin's a different bag of mixed tricks. It's really different skills. One of 'em is kinda...for the common mech. That drink there, for instance. But a sommel-yeah, that's an art form. It is the art of pairing fine enerdrinks with fine, uh...with things. Like for instance, a sommel-yeah can tell you what's a good enerwine choice to set a mood. Or which one to close a business deal with. It's REAL IMPORTANT." "Pssh. I'm sure the guy can handle it. After all, it's just a weensy side effect. Everybody leaks. Pretty sure I read that in a book someplace," 'Mixalot' says, moving behind the bar again and narrowly missing a server. The server gets an alarmed look on his face before scurrying away - was that fear? No - just nervousness... right? Couldn't possibly be that Runamuck has done this before. At this bar. Mainly by being such an obnoxious turd that they basically let him play bartender once in a while. Drink after drink is mixed, dropped, and collected, and the pace of the place picks up as the evening starts to roll in. The floor starts to fill up and the music turns up after a bit, giving the place a slightly more 'club-esque' feel. It's still fairly easy to move around, though. Blast Off lets off a slight huff, as if to show he's not afraid of Wraith at all (not true, buuut anywayyyy....) "I am finding culture with *this*" (he points to his wine glass) "..and *this*..." He lifts up his datapad. "One's surroundings do not have to dictate one's state of mind." He is just about to go back to a reading attempt, when Wraith runs out of his drink. The vampirish 'Bot looks... kind of ...thirsty. The Combaticon glances at Wraith's empty drink, then Wraith, then the empty drink again.... and suddenly he's up and heading away from his table. He makes the protest as he goes, "I came here to *read*... I cannot do that with all these distractions..." And he moves over to sit at another table. Possibly near Fathom, Rumble, and Socket. But he's not running because he's afraid Wraith's going to drink his energon with those sharp pointy teeth... no, no, /of course not/. The Combaticon holds his datapad up to his face and tries to read again. Rumble watches Fathom, wondering to himself what the secret concoction is that 'Mixalot' has made for the mech. Fathom's optics narrow slightly on this Mixalot. "Right. Where'd you learn all this anyhow? Did you go to the same academy as Rumble here?" he stalls poorly, and ends up pushing the glass over to Blast Off. "On me." Pause. "I-I mean, it's not like I bought it for you," he stammers. "I'm not hitting on you. I'm just giving you this drink." Socket sips her drink. She then spits her drink hearing Fathom 'not hitting on' Blast Off. Rumble can't help but laugh. "If you give someone a drink, you ARE hittin' on them, mech!" Airlift has entered The Steel Balloon. Blast Off looks up from his datapad as Fathom hits on him... or something. Violet optics flicker in confusion, and he eyes the drink warily. "...Riiight." He sounds less than convinced. "Uh... no, thank you, I have my wine right he..." His voice trails off as he realizes he left his wine back at the table with Wraith. ...Slag. Socket's response cause the shuttleformer to glare at her. "...Is something funny?" Optics go back to the rainbow drink, and the now drink-less Combaticon stares at it, considering whether he should or not. "...What... is it?" Rumble gets another glare, and Blast Off winds up looking over at Fathom again. What if Rumble's right?... He starts leaning away from Fathom slightly. Runamuck laughs. "It's a funny story, actually. I spent a lot of time in bars in my youth." And yesterday, and most of ten years ago. And then there was that thousand year strech on Monacus. "Trust me, it's all based on experience!" And the fact that he threatened like, five bartenders at gunpoint once to show him how to make a drink so foul that some species use it as a pesticide. 'Mixalot' finally is forced to face the fact that there are Decepticons here that know him as Runamuck, death dealing shock trooper that was summarily ignored in the battle of Fort Scyk, personally did nothing in the battle of Nebulon, and was completely absent during the war against Unicron. As a result, he parks himself in front of Blast Off and Fathom, watching the events unfold. "The little guy has a point, fella. You don't buy someone a drink without ulterior motives. Don't be a baby andd drink your super macho rainbow drink. Speaking of, can I get you more wine at this clearly sophisticated wine drinking establishment?" 'Mixalot' gestures around the bar, where a young fembot has just taken a shot of something, screeched 'WOOOOOOO' and fallen on her face after taking a selfie with a palmtop camera. Socket is trying to wipe spritzer off her datapad. "While the drinks are good, the environment leaves so very much to be desired. Entirely too noisy. And the music is so... crude." Actual Steel Balloon music lyrics: 'OONTS OONTS OONTS OONTS'. Fathom is visibly unimpressed by Mixalot's story. Even less so when he and Rumble mock him and his macho rainbow drink. Blast Off is zero help, but when are 'cons any sort of help? "I did not think this through," he admits openly. "I'd rather not leak. The doctor does not recommend it. Why don't you drink it," he slides the drink back to Mixalot. He is not drinking this drink, dammit! Coming back from the back of the bar, having had to hit the oil change, Airlift heads back to his previous place at the end and resumes his seat after glaring for a moment at the neutral who had sat down..the mech shuffles off quickly.. He kicks his feet up onto the next bar stool again, pulling an ener-cigar out and lighting it with a little laser shot as he leans back. "Bartender.." he says, eyeing the 'stand in' suspiciously. He points at a bottle on the shelf and says, "That one..just leave the bottle.." in a no nonsense sort of tone. "And then go help someone else down at the other end of the bar." Blast Off just stares at Runamuck. For a long time. "A...what? I am not a... Wait, wine? Yes, I would like a red... perhaps a Cabernet." But in the meantime, he stares back at the rainbow drink. "But... what IS this?" He reaches out and pokes at the drink. Glancing to the side, he spies Socket and her datapad. Ahhh- a fellow reader like himself. And her comment cannot go unagreed with. "Indeed, this place leaves a lot to be desired. And the music always caters to the baser elements. A shame." Fathom takes thje drink back and..."Leak?" Ok, maybe he's not interested in it after all.... Airlift gets a glance and a nod of greeting should the Reaver look his way. Combat: Runamuck compares his Endurance to 50: Success! Socket looks over at the mech that just agreed with her - and her optics flicker a moment. "Ah -- Blast Off, is it? I'm afraid I'm not terribly good with Decepticon names, I trust I have that correct?" She tries to enjoy another sip of her drink. Her datapad is presently displaying Golden Age poetry. "Yes, terribly loud and noisy in here. Difficult to have a pleasant conversation." What a buncha babies. First thing's first. 'Mixalot' shrugs and grabs the drink. "You guys are a bunch of babies," he says, matter of factly, and dumps the drink down the hatch. Nothing happens at first, which allows him to grab the bottle, 'smirk' at Airlift, and place the beverage in front of the Reaver. 'Leave the bottle' indeed. Whatever the case, he moves on to fill Blast Off's order, taking the time to pour the 'enerwine' into a sifter. It's about that time that the Amalgamous kicks in. As anyone can tell you, 'Amalgamous' is the patron saint of turning into lots of things. Sometimes that doesn't take. When it doesn't you leak. However, when it does... "Here you go, good sir, I..." And then suddenly a Trans Am is totally sitting on the bar. The (:|) symbol falls off, revealing the Decepticon badge, and really, if you don't recognized Runamuck or his altmode (entirely possible) the fact that a gas guzzling 1980's vintage vehicle is now stuck on the bar, spinning it's wheels randomly while screaming in abject confusion is probably a dead giveaway he's not entirely sane. "Here. I'm gonna show you all how this works," Rumble tells Blast Off, disappearing into the back room. "Be right back. Man, Runamuck, you're killin' it tonight! Bwahahahah!" Fathom is naturally startled by a vehicle perched atop the bar. "Holy slag!" He backs off his stool and wags his finger. "Yeah, side effects? Thanks but no thanks. Not sure why you're trying to pass yourself off as a neutral anyhow, your buddies are here." He looks over to Socket, "I'm bailin', you okay by yourself?" "Oh, certainly, leave the medic here by herself with the Decepticon and the Unicronian," Socket says with no small amount of sarcasm. Wraith is still here? Of course he is! The animators just got tired, and the budget for glowing lines had to be cut back a little bit... The 'Necrobot' takes a drink of his energon-laced wine and looks towards the gathered groups around the bar before making his way back up to the bar. Or...maybe to stand behind Blast Off. Or both. Maybe Blast Off's forgotten wine glass gets set back in front of the combaticon while he's at it. ...maybe Wraith even spiked the wine with a hint of energon while he was at it... who knows! Airlift sighs as Runamuck just..randomly goes trans-am in the middle of the bar. He picks the bottle up and drinks straight from it, "Not every Autobot idea is a bad one.." he says with a smirk as he looks at Fathom, in reference to the idea of bailing. He then focuses his attentions on Socket, and a small tick of his brow indicates interest as he eyes her. Medic eh? Now that's interesting indeed..he takes a long drag off of his bottle of enerhol, and then a long pull of the slow-burn enercigar, as he settles back comfortably, watching her curiously.. Socket returns the curiosity, but for entirely different reasons. She's been informed of his rather unique origins, and she is picturing him on a magnetic-lock circuit slab. No, not like that. Yup. Exactly like that. Hot. Blast Off nods to Socket. "You are correct. And you are?..." He pauses to glance at her datapad. "Ah... I have read that. I find the older poetry to be more... pure. The newer poems tend to be more...pretentious, though I find a few that I like once in awhile." His own datapad shows he's reading a historical document on the history of Kaon and Vos. The Combaticon missed several years of history, so he's always trying to catch up... He nods again. "Indeed. So much cacaphony... it is hard to even hear oneself think." Speaking of which, Runamuch creates a HUGE, loud commotion, and the Combaticon huffs, annoyed. "Would you stop that at ONCE!" He does manage to grab the glass of wine before there's suddenly a car nearly on top of it though. He can thank his amazingly quick reflexes for that. "Speaking of not being able to hear oneself think..." He mutters. "Or...well, think AT ALL, in HIS case..." Rumble gets a glance. "Uh... very well." Then suddenly- Wraith's hand is placing a wine glass in front of him- from behind. The Combaticon jerks to the side, turning to face the "Necrobot" warily. He grabs that wine glass, too, to prevent it from being spilled by Runamcuk, then has a datapad and two wine glasses to juggle. ...Lovely. "What... do you want?" Seems his de facto response to Wraith at the moment. It's odd though, that look that she's directing at Airlift. It is almost identical to the look that the Unicronian medic is directing back at her...who's plotting to dissect who here!? 'Mixalot'/Runamuck is hauled away by the bouncers and waitstaff, causing a lovely commotion and a lot of yelling, with words like 'THIS GUY AGAIN?' and 'WHO LET HIM BACK IN!?' It's pretty sad. The only thing more pathetic is that the as the crowd thickens as the evening gets later, there are more and more people filing in. This is punctuated by that one woo-fembot over in the corner, puking up as her friends hold her vehicle kibble back. Wraith simply smiles disarmingly at Blast Off. "Why, nothing. You simply left your drink at your previous table when you left in a huff." He raises his own glass. "Cheers. To good health and prosperity." He flickers a glance at Runamuck, then to the other Autobots as he assumes his place nearby. Not hovering over Blast Off...no, but he's not about to simply let a presence go unnoticed. "Is this place always so chaotic when your companions show up, Blast Off?" "Have you ever read the Ascetic Cybertronian? Quite the treatis, though I must say I am not particular fond of esoterics and religiosity," Socket asks Blast Off, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity. She's still looking at Airlift though, peeking up over her glasses. Just a little sample! The mech is a walking treasure trove of physiological data. After a little time has passed, Rumble re-emerges from the back room, wearing some sort of fancy-looking apron type garment, along with an ornate bottle clasped to a ceremonial gold chain. It's really a very strange sight, kind of like watching a very small wizard make his way across the bar. But Rumble seems to be taking the role very seriously. "Good evenin', femme an' mechs, I shall be your sommel-yeah tonight. I am a craft-tishian of fine enerwines." He flies over to stand on the bar, taking a 'polite' bow. Airlift's optics meet Socket's and he blows a smoke ring from that ener-cigar, the smoke a strange greenish color with little sparkles of blue-purple energy flickering through it as it drifts before dissipating. He smiles then and slowly winks at the Autobot femme, before taking another drink from his bottle of enerhol. "Don't think we'd really call him a companion..more like a somewhat advanced model drone.." Blast Off keeps gazing at Wraith warily. "...Oh." He is still *just* managing to juggle all these things, which is made easier as Runamuck is finally dragged off the bar. Placing the objects back on the table again, the Combaticon replies, "...Yes. Which is why I usually come alone." Pause. Wait, should he tell Wraith that? He quickly adds, "Well- but they are always nearby, of course...." Socket's question turns his head and he replies, "...Yes, actually. It was an interesting read. I concur, it could be a trifle heavy-handed sometimes, but an interesting look into that mindset. I prefer a more scientific approach, myself, but... traveling through space you are exposed to all sorts of things- and possibilities." As Rumble comes back out, Blast Off watches with a touch of interest, replying to the Cassete's greeting, "Good evening." Then he waits for what the tape-bot does next. This ought to be interesting. "Naturally they remain nearby. I'd expect nothing less." Wraith sips his own wine and glances towards Airlift and Socket, before simply settling himself in a chair with the grouping of socialites. His optics go to Rumble as the little mech appears dressed to the nines. "So, what are we talking about here?" "Well, not every mech comes off the assembly line intellectually blessed," Socket replied to Airlift. Still eyeing him just a little. Just a /tad/. Focus girl. Back to the pleasant conversation and not the fascinating structural intricacies of a Unicronian. She clears her vents. "Ah, a scientific mind, I see. Then we share some similarities, though astronomy is not my forte - I assume that is your discipline? I'm a medical researcher. Mechaforensics specialist, actually, but there's only so much use for morgue work these days; I'm needed in the land of the living again." "See, I'm gonna show you what's classy, here," Rumble tells Wraith in his usual Brooklynese tough-guy accent. "Watch...an' LEARN." He smirks and turns back toward Blast Off, spreading out a placemat-type setting in front of him. "Welcome to this fine establishment. If this were a fine establishment, I would be introducin' myself as your sommel-yeah for the evenin'," he tells Blast Off. "Then, I would ask the gentlemech what sort of fine enerwine he would like to partake in this evenin'." Airlift sits forward on his bar stool, his wings flexing behind him, flicking a bit, briefly extending back their full length as he stretches all four arms out wide, popping his servo's a bit in the process. Then he leans back in on the bar and watches Rumble, waiting to see what the little mech is up to. His wings seem to fold in around him a bit, hooking slightly at the shoulders like some sort of massive cloak. Morgue huh..she's probably seen his work then. Blast Off finally takes a sip from his wine glasses- one of them, he's lost track of which was which. His face wrinkles up (not that anyone can see it under his faceplate. "...Not quite as good as usual..." Then his attention focuses back on Socket, and he nods. "Yes, astronomy, interstellar physics, geology... anything a space shuttle may be required to know." He takes a sip from the *other* wine glass, and adds, "I see. Consider yourself fortunate, then... More living subjects are surely preferable to many dead ones?" An optic ridge arches. "Though of course some, like my teammate Vortex, might disagree... but he and I do not always see optic to optic anyway..." He politely listens to Rumble, and responds, "Hmm. How about a nice Pinot Noir?" Socket finishes her energon spritzer. "Why do I feel as if I am the only sane helicopter some days?" Sane. Yes. Hahaha. Wraith says, "Personally, I would go with a Malbec." He sips his own and continues to watch Rumble's antics. "Oh, quite. Educate me. I've never been one to assume I cannot learn something new." His gaze returns to Blast Off, watching the mech sample wines. "Something wrong with your drink?"" Airlift hasn't said much really since he's been sitting around the bar, in fact, most of the night. When he hears Socket's comment, he's obliged to reply though, "Airwolf.." he says simply, leaving it at that before taking a long draw off his drink again and then hitting the ener-cigar. "I can certainly do that..." Rumble holds up a finger in a 'one moment' kind of gesture, sneaks back behind the bar, and re-emerges with some top shelf brand, in a bottle as big as he is. "Might I recommend Orion Three Orchards' classic standard Pinot Noir, triple-filtered and extremely pleasing. If you wish to, uh...impress the femme-folk, you may wish to go instead with...!" Once again, Rumble disappears behind the bar, re-emerging with another bottle as big as he is. "You may want to try instead, the lovely Manganese Mountain Orcharg's Pinot Noir, with notes of clear, sweet mist-kissed stardust. Very romantic. Either way you cannot go wrong." Socket mphs around her drink, her data pad chiming with an alarm. Setting down the glass, she fiddles with a stylus and brings up incoming messages. "Bother," she grouses. "Well, so much for that. Looks like I'm needed." Standing up, she leaves a few monetary chits on the bar as payment for her drink. "Good evening to you all, gentlmechs. As it's unlikely we'll meet again any time soon, I would like to say that you have proven to me that Decepticons can be pleasant company."R Stuffing her data pad into a side panel of her 'lab coat', she turns from the bar to leave. "Fairwell, madame," Sommelier Rumble calls after Socket cordially. But still Brooklynese. Airlift slips off his own stool, "I'm going to go clock a few hours before my shift myself.." he mutters, taking his bottle with him towards the door. "Blast Off, Rumble, don't get smashed up, I'm working on something and don't want to be interrupted by repair jobs.." he warns as he walks, nodding slightly to Wraith, "Another time Autobot." Then he's at the door and flies out of the bar, heading back to Darkmount. Blast Off looks down at his wine glass with a look of distaste. Then back to Wraith. "Uh...no, just... a little... off." He pushes the one glass away, then continues on the second one. He perks up at Rumble's words. "Orion 3 Orchards? Here? ...Absolutely..." He hasn't had that in quite a while, actually.... but wait... hu, impress the femmes? "Oh... well, of I could try that, yes." Then Socket leaves... apity, actually. He nods politely to her as she goes, then turns to Airlift, nodding to him as well. "I'll... try." There's a glance to Wraith. Then it's back to Rumble. "Well... surprise me. Give me your finest offering." Wraith watches the various departures and looks back to Blast Off. "A little 'off' you say?" He reaches for Blast Off's abandoned drink and takes a sip. "Mmm, not a bad vintage, though...indeed. It does not mix well with the simple addition of this," he holds up a vial of the energon he laced his own drink with. "Pity that. Precisely why I prefer a Malbec." The little enerwine expert once again peruses the top-shelf offerings, as he didn't exactly bring a stash of fine enerwines of his own. When the bartender is busy helping the other side of the counter, Rumble pilfers another bottle and returns to the 'table setting' in front of Blast Off, still assuming or expecting that Wraith is going to 'watch and learn' from this. "I have the perfect choice. It's for when the femme you were tryin' to impress leaves before you can get her somethin'. This one's just for you. It's called 'The Big Mistake Pinor' -- but don't let its name fool you. It's slightly acidic. That acid bite is the bitterness of rejection. Then it's gotta kick. That kick would be the nitrous reaction of a thousand regrets. But then, a surprise. It goes down surprisingly smooth. Why? Cause that's what soothes the lonely heart." He pours a glass of it for Blast Off. Blast Off blinks and looks at Wraith, a bit confused... and then Wraith pulls out the vial. The Combaticon's optics widen in horror. There's a very long silence. "....What... what.... IS that?" He stares at the tainted wine glass, not wanting to believe, and starts to feel just a bit ill anyway.... Before he can think of anything else to say, (and there could be plenty!)... Rumble steps forward. Blast Off looks a little chagrined at the mention of femmes leaving... then wait, no, that's silly.... it's not like he's lonely, or looking at femmes, especially AUTOBOT femmes, pffft. "Wait... is that it's name, seriously?" He leans in to look. Then...what? Blast Off leans back, acting indignant. "I... am not lonely. I...have no idea what you're talking about." Arms cross and he glares at the two of them. He looks a bit like Grumpy Cat- if Grumpy Cat had a faceplate. "Psst, work with me here, a'rght? It's part of the job," Rumble 'asides' to Blast Off. "Truly," he says in his 'distinguished' tone, "One does not have to be a lonely heart to enjoy The Big Mistake. It is ironically named, and lovingly rendered in the Zeta Cluster by masters of enerbrew technology!" Wraith watches the full cycle of Blast Off's revelation regarding the vial... and only once it's settled in does he pop the top on his own and drain the vial in one go. "My drink of choice, Blast Off. What else would it be?" He stands, finishing off what remains of his wine. "Enjoy your evening of rest." Blast Off looks furtively at Rumble. "Well...okay then. Because it's not like *I* need that. But... yes, I will be happy to try it for you. Uh- cleanse my...palette." Another glance at Wraith. Then his optics widen in horror again. "THat..that...that is UNCOUTH!" He shakes a hand at Wraith wildly, optics still wide and finger pointing. He nearly stands up and stalks off himself, but Wraith stands up and then, well, it would be awkward. So... ok then. He'll let WRAITH stalk off. Like the vampire he is. Oh slag, Blast off is gonna be sick. A hand clutches at his midsection, and he looks like he's trying not to heave. If Cybertronians can heave anything. Especially with a faceplate. He leans back, still horrified. "I...I.." He can't think of a proper response. "...I'll get back to you on that." Angry glare. "And I WILL, I assure you."